The junkies in the system sleep somehow
Through the revolution leaking from the edges,
One of many small exits.
And spirit is
I have a key to the earth
I water seeds in you, a secret algorithm of love
I am filling up a notebook
A spirit composed of clouds and verbs.
I am in a bad mood.
The horizon is holding by a thread.
I have lost track of the days and the nights
Sleeping overtime, clasping still the straws of hope
To be free, freely entangled in the junk
Nobody seems to mind I put
In this column of integers. Why,
Should they? I
understand many things
And this is not one of them.
You must have rocks in your head.
Everything is tainted till the forgetting comes
Another set of integers
Then nature leaps out at you.
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